Second Chance
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: "So what about you, then?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock. He was angry, so angry at Sherlock for that stupid heroic, foolhardy move. "Where are you actually going now?" "Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe," Sherlock replied in a bored voice. Sequel to Anything. Warnings: contains adultery and allusions to past torture and rape. Spoilers for HLV.


**Title:** Second Chance  
**Author:** Mildredandbobbin  
**Pairing: **John/Sherlock  
**Rating:** Teen and up  
**Status:** Complete  
**Contents/Warnings: **Tw: rape, Adultery, Allusions to past torture and rape.  
**Word count: **1754  
**Summary:** Third and last part of the Scars series. Spoilers for HLV.

"So what about you, then?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock. He was angry, so angry at Sherlock for that stupid heroic, foolhardy move. "Where are you actually going now?"

"Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe," Sherlock replied in a bored voice.

* * *

Second Chance

It was cold on the runway but the sky was bluer than it had any right to be. John had no idea what was going on, all he knew was that Sherlock had somehow managed to get off the murder charge but was leaving. Mycroft had sent for Mary and him to say goodbye. Small mercy that. After everything that had happened, this was all he had, a few minutes on an airfield.

Sherlock had finally gone too far. Their stupid, mad game, running over London chasing villains, had ended here, at this point and there was no coming back from this.

There were things John knew he wanted to say, too many things and now was his last chance to say any of it and the words stuck in his throat.

"So what about you, then?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock. He was angry, so angry at Sherlock for that stupid heroic, foolhardy move. "Where are you actually going now?"

"Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe," Sherlock replied in a bored voice.

John felt his blood run cold. "Eastern Europe. How long?"

Sherlock looked over John's shoulder. "Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong."

John's stomach clenched. "Jesus, Sherlock. They're sending you _back_?" He grit his jaw, exhaling through his nose.

Sherlock looked at him, and John saw it, saw every inch of it—

"You're not coming back, are you? This is your punishment? A suicide mission." Once more John saw the images of Sherlock, on his knees, beaten, tortured, being abused.

Sherlock glanced away again. "I'm a murderer John. It's this or prison."

John's throat was too tight. "No. No. Fuck that." He stepped in closer. "This is what you get for saving me?" He hissed, low and harsh. "For saving Mary? Fuck that. God fucking damn it, Sherlock." He spun away, intensely, utterly furious. He paced a few steps then whirled back towards Sherlock. "You," he said, jabbing a finger in his direction in punctuation. "Threw away…your life, your work, _everything_. For me." He sucked in a breath. "Fuck. You."

Sherlock swallowed. He leaned towards John earnestly. "Mary, the baby, would have been in danger. _You_ would have been imprisoned or ruined."

"Jesus, Sherlock. We could have gotten out of it, you always get out of it." _Sherlock always had a plan._ Except this time the plan was to kill Magnussen and figuratively throw himself under a bus for John. _He_ should have done it, he should be the one facing the consequences but instead Sherlock, brave, brilliant, damaged Sherlock had to be the hero. Once again John saw Sherlock standing next to Magnussen, magnificent in his vengeance, pulling the trigger, a triumphant shout on his lips. It would have been glorious if it hadn't been so utterly horrifying.

"I'll – " Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm not dead yet." His mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile.

John stared up at him, searching Sherlock's ice blue eyes. God. He wanted to get on the plane and go with him. He couldn't though, not with Mary and the baby. For a full moment he considered it, then the reality of abandoning his wife and unborn baby daughter to possibly never return hit home. He was trapped and useless and Sherlock was going to his death and there was nothing he could do.

Sherlock took a breath. "John, there's something ... I should say," Sherlock began. "I-I've _meant_ to say always and then never have."

John's heart skipped a beat. He lifted his chin, forcing himself to meet Sherlock's eyes, blood pounding in his ears.

Sherlock continued. "Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now."

John waited, breath caught in his lungs, a frisson of anticipation shearing through his insides.

Sherlock hesitated. He met John's eyes and drew in a breath.

"Sherlock is actually a girl's name."

John spun away. _Fuck._ The pain of it, the ridiculous pain of it made John laugh. Of course, of course – Just a fucking joke. Never serious. Always a fucking joke. He turned back, Sherlock was smiling. Idiot. Both of them, idiots. John grit his teeth and looked down, a hysterical laugh fighting its way out of his chest.

_"_It's not," he said weakly.

"It was worth a try."

"We're not naming our daughter after you," John said. A joke, a laugh, friends, safer this way - stupid, stupid to think of anything else at this moment.

"I think it could work," said Sherlock lightly, but his expression…he held John's gaze for a moment, and it was just wishful thinking that Sherlock's eyes seemed too bright, that his smile faded just a bit on this side of broken. John ached. He swallowed around the lump in his throat.

Sherlock took off his right glove and held out his hand.

"To the very best of times, John."

John looked at his hand. A handshake. After everything. After – Just a handshake. Yeah of course. What else could it be?

John took his hand, remembering for a moment the same hand caught about his own, touching him, holding him, that same hand taking his outside Baker Street, holding his as, handcuffed together, they ran across London. Sherlock squeezed once, then released his hand and without another word turned and walked towards the plane.

It was all John could do to remain standing.

* * *

The plane taxied back towards the waiting cars. John couldn't think, could hardly breathe. Moriarty was back and therefore, so was Sherlock. Mad delight filled his chest.

Slowly, so slowly the plane door opened and finally Sherlock stepped out and started down the stairs. John pulled free from Mary's hand and strode forward to meet him.

Sherlock stopped on the last step and waited for John to come up to him.

"That wasn't long," John said, a stupid grin threatening.

Sherlock swallowed. "You're not going to punch me this time are you?" he asked with a crooked smile.

John ducked his head and looked up at him, ears heating. "No, no of course not." They stared at each other for a long moment.

"John—" Sherlock's gaze darted to John's mouth. John's breath caught.

"Yes."

And then Sherlock swooped in, cupping John's face in both hands and, pausing for the briefest moment to meet his eyes, pressed their mouths together.

John clutched at Sherlock's arms and kissed him back. His pulse raced and vaguely there were thoughts about where they were and of his wife, Mary, watching but – he couldn't refuse, not now, not with this second chance, not when Sherlock had been about to leave him forever and he hadn't said –

He pulled back with a gasp. "I love you," he panted. "Christ. I love you."

Sherlock stared at him. "John," he breathed and crushed their mouths together again. He drew back, pressing his forehead to John's. "I do too. I always have. Always."

* * *

John and Sherlock sat in the back of one of Mycroft's cars. The question of whether John should talk to Mary or go with Sherlock to work on the case hadn't even come up. By the time John and Sherlock had disengaged, Mary had gone. The thought of what he'd done sat a sickly inside John, but at the same time he was filled with sheer wonder at his own daring, at the fact that Sherlock was _his. _His. John was suddenly overwhelmed.

He checked his phone. He hadn't tried to contact Mary, he needed time to figure out what he was going to do, to get his head around _this, _before he tried to talk to her about what they were going to do. He tapped his fingers on the seat, as the enormity of his treachery hit home. He'd promised Mary, he'd said he'd forgiven her, that he'd take her back – That was impossible now. He couldn't walk away from this thing with Sherlock, not now. Even if Mary would take him back. He would have to talk to her, have to sort out things about the baby, reach an arrangement. He still wanted to be a father, the baby was still his child. God…what a mess. He bit his lip and stared out the window, unable at this moment to quite look at Sherlock.

He turned with a start when Sherlock's hand closed over his, and found Sherlock watching him, a careful, uncertain expression on his face.

Sherlock, who said he'd always loved him. Sherlock, who'd swallowed his feelings and smiled while John had married someone else. Sherlock, who'd ignored the opportunity to get rid of Mary after she'd shot him and instead gave John the excuse he needed to forgive her. Sherlock, whose pressure point had been John, might always have been John. Sherlock, who'd been willing to give up his reputation, his work, even his life, for John's happiness. Sherlock, who'd become a hero for John.

It hit John like a fist to the solar plexus. Sherlock loved him. Selflessly. Completely.

He stared at Sherlock, humbled, a flood of affection filling his chest, his heart, every inch of him.

"You idiot," he said, voice catching. "It's all right. I'm yours, I've always been yours."

Sherlock looked at him in wonder. John curled his hand around the nape of Sherlock's neck, pulled him down, and softly, with tantalising restraint, brushed his mouth over Sherlock's. Sherlock made a small sound and chased after John's lips, catching them, claiming John in a deep and tender kiss.

He blinked at John as he drew back, eyes glazed, a flush on his cheeks.

"Moriarty first," said Sherlock breathlessly. "Then I want you in my bed, for the rest of the foreseeable future."

John huffed a laugh. "All right, if that's what you want." Somewhere between now and then he'd have to talk to Mary, have to try to explain. Guilt nagged at him but not enough to make him regret this mad decision.

Sherlock's met his smile with a lopsided one of his own. "Obviously."

He sat back in his seat, the smile still playing around his lips, about his eyes. "Now, shut up and stop looking so delectable, I have to think. Moriarty can't be alive, so who would like us to think that he is?"

John huffed a laugh, and couldn't keep the beam from his face as he watched Sherlock, his great mind at work, absorbed by the case, the Game, but between them, his hand was still twined through John's and he was rubbing John's palm lightly with his thumb.


End file.
